The Orkney Scroll (9 page)

“A fugitive, you mean?” I said.

“Exactly right,” she replied. “So where, I ask you, is the money? He made a big score, didn’t he, with that fake desk thing? Hundreds of thousands of dollars? So where is it?”

“The police say he was a compulsive and unlucky gambler. They think he paid off his debts to a bookie with it.”

“I guess that’s what they meant with all their questions about what Trevor did in his spare time, is it? I knew he played the horses, and he sometimes went to a casino. I went with him a couple of times. I liked the shows. But there had to be more. He was heading out, but not with me. I knew there was something going on, but I never thought he’d run out on me.”

“Maybe he was going to ask you to come with him?”

“There was only one airline ticket,” she said. “He was leaving me.”

“Perhaps he thought, given his gambling problem, that he should do you a favor?”

“There you go again, patronizing me,” she said. “He was a rat.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry. He pulled the wool over my eyes, too, in a different way of course.”

“He convinced you it was the real deal?” she said. “That desk thing?”

“Writing cabinet,” I said. “Why does everybody have so much trouble with the name? Come on, let’s get out of here. The police have been all through the place. There is no stash of cash here.”

“If it is, I can’t find it,” she said. “But if not here, where?”

“I’m trying to tell you there may not be any.”

“There is,” she insisted.

“Look, Blair Baldwin claims to have paid eight hundred thousand dollars for the writing cabinet. The police say that’s pretty much what Trevor owed his bookie. He took the cash, paid the bookie, and that’s it. If he was leaving, he was leaving broke.”

“I don’t believe it,” she said. “We only have Baldwin’s word for the eight hundred thousand. What if he paid more than that? A lot more than that?”

“Possible,” I said.

“Exactly. That thing, the writing cabinet, was worth more than eight hundred grand, wasn’t it? I mean if it had been real?”

“Yes.”

“So where’s the rest of the money?”

“But Baldwin said…”

“He’s an axe murderer,” she interrupted. “Why would we believe him?”

“Good point. We don’t know he’s the murderer for sure, and I rather think maybe he isn’t. However, I’ve been thinking… Could we discuss this upstairs? This place is creeping me out. In fact, could we discuss this at the all-night coffee shop down the street?”

“What have you been thinking?”

“I’ll tell you when we are out of here. How did you get in?”

“Key,” she said. “If it weren’t for that yellow police stuff across the door, it would almost be legal.”

“Almost,” I agreed, as we locked up the store and headed back to the street.

With a couple of decaf cappuccinos in front of us, we went back to our chat. “I’ve had the feeling, and I may be rationalizing, that there were two writing cabinets,” I said.

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“There was a real Mackintosh writing cabinet, shown to me and to Baldwin. And there was another one, a forgery that was delivered to Baldwin, the one he chopped up at the party.”

“So we’re looking not for money, but for a second writing cabinet?” she said. “I’m still not getting this.”

“Maybe Trevor sold the Mackintosh twice,” I said. “Maybe he showed the real one to two different people, sold it to both of them, and shipped the fake to Baldwin, and the real one to someone else.”

“Like who?” she said.

“I don’t know. I realize thinking that there is someone out there forging Charles Rennie Mackintosh furniture is a little far-fetched, but no more so than a huge amount of cash hidden in the basement.” The person who was most likely to have the cabinet was, of course, Desmond Crane. I’d been to Crane’s home several times lately and hadn’t seen it, but then it would be rather foolish of him to have it on display while I was present.

“And the reason you think there were two is?”

“Percy was convinced it was real. I’m not the only one who thought so.”

“Who is Percy?”

“Percy’s grandmother once owned the cabinet. Percy or Arthur, that is.”

“Who is Arthur?”

“He’s Percy. He told me his name was Percy and he told Rendall at the Stane his name was Arthur.”

“Two different names? He sounds about as reliable as an axe murderer,” she said. “Wouldn’t it be difficult to make an exact copy? Wouldn’t you have to completely dismantle the original in order to do so?”

“Very difficult, but a lot easier if you had the complete drawings and specifications, which Trevor did, and if you’d seen the original, also possible in this case. That and a few photographs, and some paint chips that matched and you’d be away. The color wouldn’t have to be absolutely exact anyway, because you would never see the two pieces together.”

“I knew it!” she said. “There is money somewhere. Lots of it.”

“It isn’t in the shop. As my partner the RCMP officer has pointed out, that kind of cash takes up a fair amount of space. And for sure it isn’t in Trevor’s bank account. I think it was irresponsible of him to not have a will, but I know the landlord, and he’s told me he is going to auction off Trevor’s merchandise for back payment of rent as soon as the police and the courts will let him.”

“I lent Trevor rent money from time to time,” she said. “Quite often, now that I think about it. The creep owes me quite a fair chunk of cash, and I’d like it back. No chance of that, I guess. I have no record of it. I mean we practically lived together. Why would I ask him for a receipt? I tried approaching the lawyer the court appointed, but it doesn’t look good. He went on about when people die without a will, the money would go first to a spouse, and if there isn’t one, and I guess I don’t qualify, then they look down first, by which I think he meant children, then up to parents, and then out almost indefinitely to relatives, you know siblings, then cousins.”

“Did Trevor have siblings or close relatives?”

“He’s never mentioned any, but they’ll probably come up with somebody. Still, I figured I was played for a fool, and at the very least, I’d like my money back. I suppose I could plead my case with whomever they find out there to give the money to. I mean you never know: unlikely as it is, I might find a decent human being. That would make them quite unlike Trevor. So I’m thinking if I find the money it would make my life simpler.”

“If you found the money, you’d have to turn it over to the police,” I said.

“I know, but it might be about ten thousand short when I did,” she said. “I was saving that money for a down payment on a house. You probably think that’s terrible of me to even contemplate keeping some of it.”

“No. If I could find some way of salvaging my reputation as an antique dealer at the expense of Trevor, I’d do it in a flash.”

She smiled at last. “He had a way with women, didn’t he? I thought he looked and sounded a little like Sean Connery.”

“I did, too. I think that’s why I let him get away with stuff.”

“Like what?”

“Stealing good customers right from under my nose.”

“Do you have a card?” she asked. “I’d like to stay in touch if I may.”

“Of course. Give me yours as well. Is your name really Willow by the way?”

“Yes, it is. I don’t have a card,” she said. “I’m a dental hygienist. You don’t need a card for that. But I’ll give you my number. I’m thinking we might collaborate.”

“On what?”

“Salvaging your reputation and recovering my cash. I figure there would have to be at least a reward for its return, don’t you? Where do we start?”

“I wouldn’t mind a chance to visit Scotland, to go to John A. Macdonald Antiques on George Square in Glasgow and see what they have to say for themselves. Maybe even go to Orkney. You can’t generalize, of course, but if a piece of furniture is forged, it does tend to have been in the country of origin of the authentic piece. I’ll be in the general area anyway, so maybe I’ll just pop up there and talk to them.”

The tiny part of my rational brain that was still functioning, the part that had been banished to a position floating somewhere near the unpleasantly bright neon light fixture in that coffee shop, looked down on two sadly deluded, if not delusional, women and wept.

Chapter 4

Bjarni had some choices to make in terms of where he should go. He could go back to Norway, of course. It was where he was born, and he still had kin there. But he wasn’t sure in what favor he’d be viewed, or whether Einar’s ties were stronger than his, and frankly retracing his steps does not appear to be something Bjarni liked to do. He knew, of course, of the route via the Shetlands and Faroes to Iceland, and he probably had kin there. Icelandic ships put in at Orkney, and Bjarni doubtless knew all about the land of fire and ice, the harsh and unforgiving terrain, and the long cold nights. Iceland fared rather poorly in comparison to the lush and fertile lands of Orkney, it had to be said, even if it did have an air of adventure to it. It did not take him long to decide Iceland was not somewhere he wanted to go. He’d heard rumors, too, of lands even farther west and even less hospitable. So Bjarni heeded his brother’s advice and took the route he knew as well as any other, to the west, to the lands where he’d raided every year with Sigurd, and where he thought some support in his difficulties with Einar might lie.

And so Bjarni headed for Caithness in northern Scotland. Caithness fell under the control of the earls of Orkney some of the time and was fertile hunting ground for loot most of the time. Indeed, the Orkney earl credited with taking Caithness was an earlier Earl Sigurd, this one known as Sigurd the Powerful. There is a legend about this Sigurd, that he died because he tied his vanquished enemy’s severed head to his saddle. The dead man bit Sigurd’s leg and Sigurd succumbed to the wound. A good story to be sure, and probably not true, but it does give some idea of the animosity that existed between the Vikings on one side and the Picts and Scots on the other.

At this particular juncture, Caithness and neighboring Sutherland to the south belonged to Einar’s youngest brother Thorfinn, who had been given it by his grandfather King Malcolm of Scotland. The boy was too young to rule but advisors were appointed by the king. A number of Orkney men who had suffered under Einar’s tyranny, or like Bjarni had provoked his wrath, had gone to Caithness to enjoy the support of young Thorfinn.

But this would not be true for Bjarni. You’ve probably already guessed by now that Bjarni was of somewhat intemperate disposition, rather prone to setting disputes with his Viking axe rather than negotiation. He had left Orkney a little short of provisions, given his haste, and so he did what he’d always done: he helped himself to what he needed. The trouble was he met with some resistance in the form of the brother of one of Thorfinn’s advisors. Bjarni emerged from the little set-to as the victor, but it didn’t do him much good. The brother was dead, and Bjarni was once again on the run.

Glasgow is Charles Rennie Mackintosh’s city. It was here that he was born, where he studied at the Glasgow School of Art, and here that he formed the Glasgow Four, with fellow draftsman Herbert McNair, and two sisters, Frances and Margaret Macdonald, both members of a group of women art students who called themselves, rather fetchingly, the Immortals. The Four developed a unique body of work, an unusual design aesthetic, which is often now referred to as Glasgow School, a subset of the Arts and Crafts movement, and indeed of Art Nouveau. Herbert went on to marry Frances, and Charles married Margaret, who collaborated with her husband from that time on.

Mackintosh’s work is everywhere in Glasgow, having finally achieved the hometown recognition denied him during his lifetime. Not that Mackintosh was deterred by this lack of acceptance while he lived: he boldly laid claim to being Scotland’s greatest architect. True or not, the remaining examples of his work have become places of some modest pilgrimage for those who love Arts and Crafts design. Mackintosh’s designs for furniture, textiles, posters, lighting, clocks and so on, are now much admired and indeed coveted. You can eat Scottish salmon on brown bread in the faithfully reproduced Willow Tearooms that Mackintosh designed for Miss Catherine Cranston. You can walk the hallowed halls of the Glasgow School of Art where Mackintosh not only studied, but which he later designed when new quarters were called for. You can see the rooms in which he and Margaret lived, every piece of furniture designed by them, carefully reconstructed in the Hunterian Art Gallery. You will have barely scratched the surface.

I did all of these things. I went to every place that exhibited authentic Mackintosh. I talked to every expert I could find. I peered at every detail, most particularly the locks. I came away convinced that the first cabinet I’d seen was authentic.

While I had no trouble finding Charles Rennie Mackintosh’s ghost in Glasgow, what I couldn’t find was the real John A. Macdonald Antiques. Not on George Square, the address on the receipt in Trevor’s files, nor anywhere else for that matter. In my heart of hearts, I knew I wasn’t going to find them. I just wasn’t prepared to admit it. Before I left home on the buying trip, I’d checked Glasgow telephone listings on the Internet and had done a dealer search on the British Antique Dealers’ Association Website, as well as on other Websites that featured Scottish antique dealers. No John A. Macdonald Antiques.

Still, my optimistic, or perhaps desperate, little soul had decided if I went there I’d find them. Once I’d convinced myself of the notion that I had not been wrong about the writing cabinet, further self-delusion was not only possible, but essentially effortless.

Glasgow had not been a regular stopping place for me, and I had been looking forward to it. It has a reputation for being one of the, if not the, most stylish city in Britain— edgy, fashionable, and exciting. I had not had time to put my usual careful plans in place for the trip, given the events of the spring and summer, so it was rather more haphazard than usual: I started in Rome, moved on through Tuscany, the south of France, Paris, then over to Ireland, before ending up in London. All along I took digital photos of the merchandise I’d purchased and e-mailed them to Clive so he would first of all know I was on the job, and secondly that he’d have something to show anyone who thought our showroom looked a little bare. From London, I called him to say I couldn’t get a flight back right away, so was going to head for the English countryside for a couple of days for a break. He was actually nice about it, which just served to make me feel guilty, although not guilty enough to forego my intended excursion to Charles Rennie Mackintosh country.